


The Same

by operationmycroft



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Angst, Brotherly Love, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1266583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/operationmycroft/pseuds/operationmycroft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was years after Mycroft had helped him fake his own death when he got the call he never expected he’d get. </p><p>“I regret to inform you that your brother Mycroft has been shot and killed while on assignment. I'm sorry for your loss.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Same

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I just couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock's reaction to Mycroft's death. EHHfjdskjg Holmecest if you squint... I saw a post on tumblr that got me thinking about this.

It was years after Mycroft had helped him fake his own death when he got the call he never expected he’d get.  
“Are you Sherlock Holmes?” A woman's voice asked briskly.  
“Yes.” Sherlock said, annoyed.  
“I regret to inform you that your brother Mycroft has been shot and killed while on assignment. I'm sorry for your loss.”  
The scene before him, a dead man shot five times, blurred as he stumbled out of the house.  
“Sherlock?” John called the worry blatantly obvious in his voice, it was the first case he had been on in a while. He and Mary had just returned from a vacation.  
Dropping the phone he gripped the railing of a nearby fence.  
No. Mycroft hadn’t done field work, since… since he came to Syria. Mycroft wouldn’t leave him. Mycroft was suppose to be there-- always.  
John approached quickly, “What’s wrong?”  
“Mycroft’s dead.” Sherlock forced the words out, saying it only made it more real. “I’m leaving.”

221B was silent. Sherlock sat in his chair, a cold cup of tea sitting on the table and hands clasped together. Mrs. Hudson knew better than to talk to him and John had stopped trying to call him for the moment. Mycroft would understand, their minds so alike. A closeness that years apart would not abate and one that Sherlock would--could not be reminded of for the rest of his life. Mycroft haunted his innermost thoughts and lived in his palace moving from room to room. He could never live like this. _Sherlock, brother-dear._

A note was found, crumpled, near the fireplace that read:

“However much you don't want to admit it we really are the same.” I'll just throw your words back at you. It hurts, I don't know exactly what I'm feeling right now but whatever it is it hurts like hell. You knew me and you were right, all that time you were right. I didn't know it then but I needed you, before I had friends I didn't know what it was like to-- be loved. I think that you, a long time ago, explained this feeling to me. I think-- I think I'm... missing you.

The note had been crossed off and on the paper, in his spidery hand, the word: Sediment.

His gun had dropped to the floor and the blood had sunk deep into the red carpet before anyone found the detective.


End file.
